


Alternate Inkspell

by LittleMissSweetheart



Category: Tintenwelt-Trilogie | Inkheart Trilogy - Cornelia Funke
Genre: Alternate Canon, Book 2: Tintenblut | Inkspell, Cosimo is dead, Farid (mention), Meggie folchart (mention), Still, The Adderhead (mention), but but farid isn't there and dustfinger has a new kid, dustfinger being a somewhat father figure, dustfinger looking after a kid, i just like dustfinger and think hes cool okay, its not that i dont like them I just dont want or need them, most main plot points are the same, roxane and brianna are dead sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27432577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissSweetheart/pseuds/LittleMissSweetheart
Summary: it's an alternate canon of inkspell, focused on dustfinger and my original character. some minor details are different, try not to think about how that affects the plot or it'll all fall apart :) I'll update as I go
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this started as me trying to write in the style of the book cause i've gotten so hyperfixated on it, but it's now a 9 page google doc i visit more than my homework assginments so that's fun :) it's focused on dustfinger cause I like him (why wouldn't you?) and it starts at the bit where dustfingers finally back in inkheart and he's in the inn talking to clouddancer for the first time. the beginning might be a bit off, i think i hit my stride a little later, and im sorry if its ooc sometimes :/ im genuinely not expecting many people to read this at all, I just wrote it for me :)

Above the crashing sounds of the inn, of drunken laughs and the seedlings of scraps, it was too early in the evening for a proper brawl, the ale was not yet flowing thick enough, Dustfinger heard a sound out of place in the finely practiced raucousness. At a table in the corner, the sound of a girl. She clearly wasn’t a player, her voice was not nearly confident enough for that. Instead, her syllables cracked and splintered in her mouth, much like Darius, Dustfinger remembered with a wry grimace. She was upset, eyes ringed red from crying, and as Dustfinger slipped closer through the heaving inn, he could see she wore the same clothes as Meggie had. She was from the other world, the world that had trapped Dustfinger for too long. How ironic, Dustfinger thought to himself, that the very moment he should escape that place a tiny fragment should follow him home. It was nonsense, whimsical thoughts born of nothing but the music soaring in his heart to have returned. There was no telling how long she had been here, but however long it was, she clearly was not adjusted to it. 

“What  _ can  _ you do?” asked one of the players surrounding her, as she had gathered a small throng. Begging, thought Dustfinger grimly. The motley folk didn’t take kindly to it, preferring to spend any coins they could spare on those who earned them. The girl stuttered at the question, then answered “I can tell stories.”. The players around her laughed loudly, then, having got their amusement, turned away from her. Dismay wrought itself across her face. “Please.” she cried. 

“Sorry girl.” came the reply. “Go beg at the feet of those who can afford it.”

The girl moved away from the table and raised her voice, all crack and splinters gone. “You cruel men.” she said, and her voice was almost as smooth as Silvertongue’s. “I know, I cannot dance, or sing. I never had an instrument to learn to play, the mysteries or fire or water will forever escape me, and I cannot balance as you can. I have no animal to train, nor magic to exploit. I do not have the beauty nor the skill you have been blessed with, I am well aware. All I can do is tell stories, it is the only thing inside me. It is as much a part of me as tightrope walking or bear taming is a part of you. I did not choose it. But you would leave me to starve for it?” 

The inn was quieter, those who listened to her curiously taken aback by the fury of the girl. She was a good head and shoulders below them but while she spoke she seemed to rise, towering up to the rafters. She had shrunk now, a dwarf amongst the echoes her speech had left. Dustfinger was strangely compelled for her, perhaps it was the heady taste of home softening his heart, or perhaps her resemblance to Meggie and Farid, but he pulled a small copper coin from his pocket and approached her. “A coin for a story.” he said, and her face lit up. She took the coin gingerly from his fingers, taking extra care not to seem rude or ill mannered, and nodded at him. Another player spoke, as the inn’s regular noise resumed. “Tell us your story,” he said, “and we’ll see if it’s worth paying for”. She nodded again, and hopped backward onto a table to sit cross legged like an imp. “You must have heard the story,” she began, “of Peter Pan and Neverland.” The players shook their heads, and Dustfinger smiled inwardly. The devious little minx, he thought. He had heard that story in the other world, every parent told it to their children. She wasn’t a storyteller after all, just a thief. Still, he feigned ignorance with the others, and listened all the same. 

Satisfied with the reaction from her audience, the girl continued. “Peter Pan was a boy, a boy so unlike all other boys. Peter Pan was a boy who never grew up. He lived in a magical world, called neverland, where the mermaids played in the lagoons all day and night, and the fairies flitted wherever their hearts desired. One fairy was Tinkerbell, and she was Peter Pan’s faithful sidekick. Of all the people of Neverland, Tinkerbell liked Peter the best, and never could you see Peter Pan without hearing the tinkling fairy language of his faithful companion. Peter Pan was a carefree and joyful boy, but he wasn’t without responsibility. Peter Pan was the leader of the greatest gang in Neverland, the lost boys. The lost boys were boys who Peter had befriended, back in the real world, and taken away to Neverland to join his raucous family. As much as Peter loved Neverland, he was always fascinated with the real world, and often flew with tinkerbell to visit it. His favourite place to visit was the home of Wendy Darling, the daughter of a rich man. Wendy was scarcely older than 12, with brown hair, and she slept in a beautiful blue silk nightdress. Many a night Peter would sit in the window of Wendy’s room, watching her dreams as they floated around her head.” Dustfinger smiled. He had heard this story many times in the other world, but he had to admit, she told it well. The reverence in the voice as she let her mouth trace the words of the story, almost afraid to bend the shape of them. She was good at what she did. But she was not a storyteller. The girl told the story all the way to the end, about Captain Hook and his alligator, about Peter losing his shadow, about Tiger Lily and the lost boys and Mr Smee, the airborne sword fight, all of it. By the end, the players were enthralled. More had joined the original crowd, and they leaned against tables and each other enamoured by the world the girl had woven. One player put a small copper coin on the table next to her. “It was worthy of a coin.”. A few other players, the ones who could afford it, offered coins too, and once they were finished she looked at the few she had amassed with the smile of someone who knew she could eat that night. 

She leaped off the table with a lack of grace and made for the door, no doubt to find somewhere where her small pile of coins would stretch further. As she went, Dustfinger slipped back into the background, savouring the familiarity of it all, but his attention was drawn to her again, when Clouddancer blocked her path. “Now tell us girl.” he said, a hearty laugh warming the bottom of his words the way flames warm Dustfinger’s arms. “How do you know such stories?”

The girl shrugged. “I used to write stories for those wiser than me.” she replied hesitantly, the magic gone from her voice once again. She spoke carefully, picking over her words the way a bird picks at stones. Dustfinger knew she was translating her past. He had done much the same thing in the other world. 

“For lords? And rich merchants?” asked a player, and the girl made a facial expression that neither confirmed nor denied the question. 

“Ha!” cried another player. “From lords to players, what a downfall! What happened!”

“I fell on bad luck.”. Her eyes turned downcast, and she was clearly thinking about other things. The sombre mood was ended almost before it began, though, when a player cried out “Fell on bad luck you say! Shame you didn’t fall on your dagger also, I’m out a copper for it!” The other players burst into rowdy laughter, slapping their friend on the shoulders. “I don’t have a dagger,” the girl cried good naturedly over the hubbub. “but if I did it would be buried in your gut for that joke.”. The players’ roar of laughter grew even louder, and she, too, was rewarded with a few good natured punches. The innkeeper, come to see the source of the merriment, laughed too. “A wit that sharp is deserving of an act of charity.” he said, offering the girl a megre bowl of soup. “But be warned. It is the only act of charity I will ever offer.”` She took the bowl gratefully, and the crowd, losing interest in her once again like a tide ebing from the shore, resumed their original conversations. Dustfinger, though, was curiously fixated with her, and watched as she ate her soup with a slightly wrinkled nose. He watched while she finished, and left the inn quietly. He followed swiftly and just as silently. 

She walked down the road slowly, easy to follow. Dustfinger watched from the edge of the street as she ducked and weaved around people passing the other way, stopping on the balls of her feet to avoid a cart. Eventually, Dustfinger got tired of watching her and slipped out of his shadows to catch her, which he did with a gentle hand on her shoulder. She jumped, and spun around with panic in her eyes. When she saw who it was, though, the panic faded and she almost smiled. “Thank you for the coin.” she said, her voice once again splintering with nerves.

“You talk your stories well.” he said, ignoring her gratitude. “And you've adjusted your language just as well.”. 

A flicker of recognition passed behind her eyes, but she stamped it down. “Adjusted my language?”

“It’s one of the hardest tasks, after finding yourself in the wrong story.”

She gasped quietly, and a mix of relief and confusion flooded her face. She opened her mouth to say something, but Dustfinger beat her to it. 

“I almost took offence when you started telling that story. You’re no storyteller, just a common thief.”. His voice seemed stern, but his face showed the same half smile as when he would chastise Farid for letting the fire lick up his arms too recklessly. Perhaps he  _ was  _ going soft. 

“Well I take offence to that.” she responded, mischief edging her words. “I never claimed to be a story writer. Just a teller.”

“Hmm.”. Perhaps she was more like Farid that he had realised. The same brashness, the same youthful brightness, and the same desperation for someone to reward it. “What do they call you?” he asked. Damn your softness Dustfinger, he thought. The last thing you need is another tiresome child under your feet, pining for the wrong story. Walk away and don’t look back, she’ll do just as well without you. 

“They don’t call me much of anything. If someone wanted to start, though, they’d call me Puck.” she finished hopefully. “What do they call you?”

“Dustfinger.” he said, and turned his back on her. Enough was enough. He was home, and he never wanted anything to do with that wretched world again. She seemed a nervous girl, and Dustfinger hoped her nerves would keep her from following as he walked away, as brambles bar a farmers field. Some field,he thought to himself as he walked. I imagine barely a single seed could grow in my furrowed face. He had gotten a fair few steps from her, when he heard the pat of footsteps behind him and turned back to look. Foolish Dustfinger. Keep walking, slip behind the houses, she could never find you. But Dustfinger didn’t listen to himself, and watched as Puck ran towards him. “I’m sorry.” she gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but please don’t leave me alone. I’ve been in this wretched world for far too long, and not once has anyone stopped to ask my name. I’d almost forgotten it. You’re a player, aren’t you? Please let me travel with you, I won’t get in the way. I’ll carry messages, and tidy your camp and do anything else, please?” Dustfinger looked down at the girl, looking up at him with the same eyes as Farid, begging to stay with Dustfinger that night outside Capricorn’s village. He tried to walk away, to leave this trouble where he had found it, but his heartstrings tugged most stubbornly. “Fine.”, he agreed. Stupid Dustfinger! Letting your heart get the better of you. What will you say to Roxane? Dustfinger caught himself on his last thought. Clouddancer had told him the news as soon as he saw him, Roxane and Brianna perished at the hands of those wretched fire-raisers. Neither Dustfinger nor Puck had anyone in this world. But Dustfinger had friends, and a knowledge of the land. Puck had a handful of copper that would not last her two days. 

Puck’s face brightened immensely when he agreed, and as Dustfinger walked along the street she followed like a dog, a little behind him. They had reached the tanners when Dustfinger looked at her, humoured. “You don’t have to walk behind me like that. I’m not as cruel as certain masters in this city.” Puck nodded, and quickened her step a little to reach Dustfinger’s side. It was easy to almost forget she was there, her head so far below Dustfinger’s own. Were it not for her occasional stumbles, her foot catching momentarily on some invisible obstacle in the dirt, he would have forgotten entirely. As they approached the city walls, Dustfinger caught sight of someone he would rather have forgotten. “Keep your thieving mouth quiet.” he murmured to Puck, and she followed his line of sight with scared, miserable eyes. So she’d been around long enough to hear of the Piper. The Piper’s silver nose glinted as bright as his chest plate, proudly boasting the Adderhead’s symbol to anyone who dared to glance his way. Dustfinger remembered when the Piper’s nose was just flesh and blood, but now his silver protrusion was his symbol, as much as Basta’s knife or Her Ugliness’ birthmark. Dustfinger hoped he might have been able to slip past without making too much of a fuss, but the Piper’s eyes trained on Dustfinger’s scarred face like a hawk on a sparrow. “Dustfinger!” he cried, his voice strained and nasal. “Well, my old scarred friend, back from the dead? I heard Basta had slit you open and left you to the whitewomen? Or are you as good with them as with your blue skinned loves?” Dustfinger opened his mouth to reply, when the Piper shifted his gaze to the girl next to him. “What’s this? A player with a maidservant? Or has news of Roxane’s death pushed you into the arms of another?” He snuck a glance at Dustfinger through narrowed eyes, checking to see how he’d react. Dustfinger chuckled humorlessly. “Piper, still sharp tongued I see. Although now it seems your nose is as cold as your words.” The Piper looked away from Puck to glare at Dustfinger, then returned his gaze to her. “You didn't answer my question Dustfinger.” he said, looking Puck up and down. “Is she your lover? Your servant? She seems rather too fat for a peasant girl, did her master lose her over cards?”

Puck shivered under the Piper’s cruel gaze, and glanced at Dustfinger, who glared a warning back at her. He knew what she was doing, she had the same look in her eye as Meggie had, trying to find the right words to spit back. But the Piper carried a sword, and didn’t take kindly to being challenged. 

“Something like that.” replied Dustfinger, taking a step towards Piper. Dustfinger couldn’t do the slightest bit of damage to Piper in a fight, and he wasn't planning to. He had stepped forward to draw the Piper’s eyes away from Puck. He was hoping she would skirt behind his back like a scolded cat, but the silly girl stayed put, clutching her skirt with white knuckles. “Her master fell on hard times and had to sell her. I got there as he was getting desperate, and bought her for a couple of copper pieces. Fancy a maidservant being bought for copper, Piper. But in a world where minstrels can be bought for silver, perhaps it isn't so far fetched after all.” Dustfinger delivered his lie with a mild tone, but his dig at The Piper's silver nose flared fire in the minstrel’s eyes. “Perhaps I ought to finish Basta’s job and send you back to the whitewomen myself, firefingers.”, Piper spat, fingering the tip of his sword. Dustfinger didn’t react to the threat. The Piper may have been more self- serving than Basta, but he was still afraid to act out of his master’s turn. 

Irritated by Dustfinger’s lack of reaction, The Piper gave him one last threatening glance, and strode away towards the inner streets of Ombra. There was no point risking burned hands over insults, and The Adderhead might be interested to know the firecatcher was back after all. 

Dustfinger looked at Puck, who was stood still clutching her skirt, her brow furrowed. He jerked his head towards the city walls, and walked away, quiet as a cat, as he always was. Puck trotted behind him, tugging her sleeves over her wrists. “Silly girl.” Dustfinger said. His voice was mild, but there was a trace of irritation underneath. 

Puck looked almost shocked for a split second, then her face settled into a weathered resignation that made Dustfinger almost sorry he said anything at all. “Have you learned nothing from being here? Surely you must have heard not to talk back to the adder’s men.” 

“I wasn’t going to!” said Puck indignantly, but her heavy voice spoiled her anger, and Dustfinger knew she was lying. Children are always the same, thought Dustfinger. Farid had often used that same voice, letting the syllables drop more clumsily when Dustfinger had questioned him about his missing matches, or the burns on his fingers. 

“Yes you were. I could see that thieving mouth of yours searching around for a stinging retort, which believe me, would have stung a lot less than what the Piper would have replied with.”. Puck cast her eyes downward.    
“I didn’t take kindly to being called your lover.” she mumbled, her face a blotchy pink. Dustfinger sighed. “Well I would get used to it. A fair few men will think that, and it’s better they do, lest they think you're up for taking.”

Puck nodded again. “Did you really escape the whitewomen?” she asked. 

“Of course not. No-one can escape the whitewomen, not even me. I went somewhere far worse than into their cold houses.”.

“My world.” said Puck quietly, and it wasn’t a question. 

“Ten years I spent traipsing around your terrible world, performing tricks in town squares and almost getting killed by cars every night. I wouldn’t go back if you paid me all the silver and gold in Cosimo’s crypt.”

“Well that’s how I feel about this stupid place! Almost getting eaten by wolves and night mares, waking up with fairies in my hair and hiding from men with swords every thirty seconds. What’s it to me if they’re good or bad! A sword is a sword, and it’ll run me through all the same, no matter what anyone says.” Puck’s voice had risen shrilly, and Dustfinger recognised himself in her words. He remembered all those nights he had spent, too afraid to cross the road for fear those hulking metal beasts would come tearing out of the darkness. Even as he learned the rules of that other world, the rules of stop and go, of striped paint that protected him like a ward, he never really believed it. Like she said, a sword is a sword. 

Even so, he had to laugh at her botchy, flushed face, her hands waving up and down like leaves in a storm, her strained voice. She was almost like a fairy, small and indignant, and shrill. Not as willowy or delicate, perhaps, but certainly shrill. 

Puck stopped talking and frowned up at Dustfinger, hurt brown eyes peering out from under her furrowed brow. “It’s all very well for you.” she said sullenly. “You know everything about this stupid place, and everyone seems to know you. It seems I’m no different from a tree stump, the way people pass me by.” Dustfinger stopped smiling, though it was hard. When was the last time you smiled like this, Dustfinger? He thought to himself. Perhaps you were more miserable in that world than you realised. She really did remind him of Farid, her sullen, indignant gaze glaring up at him. Farid had done much the same thing, the first time Dustfinger had scolded him for letting the fire scorch his face and singe his hair. “It’s alright for you.” he had said, handing back the matches reluctantly. “Fire listens to you. How will I learn if you don’t let me talk to it?” They seemed almost the same person, underneath their skins. But Farid had been bold, afraid of nothing. She seemed to be afraid every rock she passed would leap up and devour her. 

“Come on.” he said, by way of an apology. “I have people I want to see, and they’re a good walk away.” She obliged, of course, and the two slipped out of the city gates, and towards the Wayless Wood. 

Dustfinger cursed himself, cursed himself again and again, for letting the girl come with him. How was he supposed to know how wretchedly slow she was. Even the fat bookworm had moved faster than this. He had almost lost her once, as he stole away up a hill and left her halfway, too afraid to call out. He only noticed when he realised he hadn’t heard her stumble in a while, and had to double back to let her catch up. Spending the night in the Wayless Wood wasn’t too much of a bother for Dustfinger, there was nothing in the trees he was particularly afraid of, but with the girl as well, it was a trial Dustfinger was loath to undertake. Dustfinger found a hollow tree with thick, twisted branches in the darkness, and instructed Puck to sleep in the trunk. She did, unwillingly, and Dustfinger settled in the branches like a thin, sandy-coloured panther. Puck lay awake, whispering quietly, for the best part of an hour, her voice shaky and thin. Like Farid, thought Dustfinger, always whispering to keep his infernal ghosts away. He was almost tempted to tell her there were worse things to be afraid of in the wood than shadows and ghosts, but he left her to it, and went to sleep fairly quickly. She was still whispering for hours afterwards, lying curled in the trunk like a cat with her eyes wide and watchful, ears pricked for the snap of a twig, or the shift of leaves. She had heard the stories of robbers and bandits in the woods, and Dustfinger’s quip stayed fresh in her mind. Suppose they did think she was there for the taking. Not much she could do about it, lying in a knot in the tree, like a doll in a shop window. The gentle wind stirred the leaves again, and it would be a while before sleep claimed her aching eyes. 

When Dustfinger woke up, wonderous relief flooded his body to see the green canopy of home above him, instead of street lamps and aeroplane trails. He was really, truly home. He had been half expecting it all to have been a marvelous dream. He laid on his back on the tree branch, hands stretched behind his head as he watched the birds and the fairies make their way through the sky. After a few minutes, he climbed silently down the trunk, and made his way through the wood. He had only gotten a few steps, before he remembered Puck, still lying in the trunk, still asleep. He hesitated. He could go back, help her through the woods to the players camp, and leave her there to make her own way. But her slowness, and her shrillness, poked into Dustfingers brain like icy fingers, and he turned away. He had a stronger motive too, for leaving her there, but he felt bad thinking it even when he was alone. The truth was, he was home, and he didn’t want to share his world with another. Farid, at least, had been useful, climbing and stealing, and carrying Gwin. Puck was worse than useless. Was this how Silvertongue felt? Hiding his daughter away from the stranger to his world, shielding his precious life as Dustfinger now shielded his? As he was thinking it, feeling more and more confident in his decision, he heard a pat of footsteps behind him that was growing in familiarity. Puck came into view beside him, her hair an unruly mess of leaves and earth. “A fairy woke me.” she said. Damn those vain little things, swore Dustfinger. Probably angry that I didn’t think to leave a lock of my hair on the tree branch. He half expected Puck to ask him why he walked away, or shout or scold, but she didn’t. She just walked by his side in silence, a little behind him. They walked like that for a long time, quietly. Unlike Meggie would have been, she didn’t seem particularly interested in the fruit and flowers that grew around them, or the creatures that skittered and flew through the undergrowth next to the path. She just walked with Dustfinger, her eyes steadfastly ahead. 

Dustfinger made better time in the light of the morning, at least Puck could find her way easier, but her legs still moved jerkily, and she was slower than he would have liked. He considered the idea that her long skirt was slowing her down, but the fabric came only to the tops of her ankles, and he knew a great many player women who could walk faster than her in skirts that dragged along the floor. As the sun grew higher in the sky, and the morning mist disappeared from the edges of the trees, Puck’s lips stayed sealed, her eyes twitching from the path ahead of her to Dustfinger’s back, then back again. They reached the camp at midmorning, the sun a quarter-way into the sky. Dustfinger looked around at the faces, some he knew, some he didn’t. He was glad the Black Prince’s generosity stretched as far as the hardship that more and more faced. 

As he was looking around, a familiar player hurried up to him.

“Ah! Dustfinger, must you always arrive at the poorest of times?” he asked, his face wrought. 

Dustfinger’s face must have shown his fear, for Twofingers struck a wide smile. “Too late for breakfast and too early for lunch!” Dustfinger relaxed as his friend laughed, but his heart still beat a little too quickly as they walked with Twofingers into the camp. “Not that we have much to offer here anyway, of course,” said Twofingers, making easy conversation as they passed a few faces Dustfinger didn’t recognise. “But there’s always enough to share with an old friend. And his charge, it seems.” Twofingers peered round Dustfinger’s thin body and looked at Puck, stood quietly in his shadow. “Yes, I picked her up in Ombra.” said Dustfinger absently. “She was as lost as a fish in a barrel of flour, I took pity on her.” Dustfinger’s words came quietly and smoothly, his mind fixed on other things. He had missed the camp while in the other world, missed this small patch of freedom from the hardship and the danger, where you could hide out and share a joke, away from the truth of the world. No such place existed in the other world, and certainly not one that would shelter Dustfinger.    
“Dustfinger, that soft heart will be the death of you yet.” teased Twofingers.You don’t know the half of it, thought Dustfinger grimly. But Gwin was far away, and hopefully would keep his death with him. 

Twofingers left Dustfinger and Puck by a bench made of a thick log, and went to attend some other business that kept him occupied at the camp. As they sat amidst the hubbub of the players, the children and the healing women, Dustfinger closed his eyes and absorbed it. All that time he had spent, stumbling around in that cruel, bright world, and here he was back home, where the night was dark and the trees were taller than any skyscraper. Puck looked around, wonderstruck and timid, at the players, at the children running between their legs and flipping up onto their hands at a moment's notice. Dustfinger watched her with amusement, laughing inwardly at her wide eyed stare at everything so foriegn to her. She was so quiet. Meggie would have been asking a thousand questions, questioning every leaf, every thread. Farid might not have been as interested in things like that, but he certainly would have been asking about the people, why were they there, for how long. What dangers, what joys? Puck just stared in silence, and Dustfinger realised she hadn’t said a word since she ran after him early that morning. Even now, amidst all the curious sights, she didn’t say a thing. She just gazed out at the people walking past with wide eyes. Once, she caught sight of the Black Prince, with his bear, and her eyes grew as round as saucers, but still she didn’t say a word. “What do you think?” asked Dustfinger, offering her a piece of bread. There was a cloth full on a log close to them, and Dustfinger was famished. “A little different from your world, don’t you think?” Puck nodded, and nibbled on the bread with a whispered ‘thank you’, her eyes still scanning the camp with wonder. Realisation struck Dustfinger, and he was tempted to scold himself out loud for his stupidity. Stupid, blind Dustfinger, he thought. The silly girl thinks she’s upset me. How could I have missed those sad eyes boring holes in my back the whole way? Dustfinger wasn’t sure what to do. He almost wished she were crying, at least then he could wipe her tears and reassure her. Or he wished she would shout and stomp like Meggie had, wiping angry tears before they could form. Or perhaps even sulk bitterly as Farid often did, retorting to his conversation with indignant barbs until Dustfinger finally wheedled it out of him. Silence gave him nothing. She just sat and ate her bread like a mouse, eyes downcast. 

Dustfinger got up and left Puck on the log. She started as he got up, and almost followed, but he didn’t look at her as he left. She knew better than to follow where she wasn’t wanted twice in one day, and stayed sat on the log, feeling small and exposed. Her heart sank a little, and disappointment gnawed in her stomach. She was ashamed at how terribly she had performed the previous night, and felt certain that Dustfinger would leave her there, on the log surrounded by people she’d never met. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he walked further and further from her, and her heart beat a little faster the further he got. He got so far she was about to get up and follow him, never mind his disapproval, but he suddenly stopped walking and sat with a group of men at a rough wooden table. She watched as they laughed and talked, about what she couldn’t hear, and then turned her eyes back to the ground as Dustfinger returned. He sat down, and put a small lump of cheese between them. “Ought to make the bread a little better. They don’t get the best grain out here.” 

Puck nodded. “I expect no-one wants to waste good grain on a player’s tongue.” she murmured. 

“Exactly. You’re brighter than I give you credit for, word-thief.”

Puck looked at Dustfinger. “Is that what you’re to call me now?” 

“If you told me your real name, I might use it.” 

“Puck is my real name.” said Puck, indignantly, but her mouth was curling upward despite itself. 

“I heard that name in your world often enough. Puck of pook’s hill, Puck the fairy in some play or another, but never the name of a child.”

Puck sighed. “Patrica’s my real name.”

“Ah.” chuckled Dustfinger. “Perhaps I’ll stick with Puck.”

“Rude.” Puck tried to look stern, but she was glad of Dustfinger’s teasing. Some of the fear in her chest was leaving her, and she felt safer with him, despite his scared face and guarded eyes. Dustfinger picked up the cheese and turned it over in his rough hands. “I should have borrowed a knife. Fancy me wishing for a knife, of all things.” he said, running his empty hand over his scars. 

“I have a knife.” said Puck, quietly. Her confidence had vanished again.

“Really?” asked Dustfinger. “Well so long as you don’t intend to cut my throat with it, I’m glad of it, where is it?” 

Puck tilted her body away from Dustfinger, and leaned over until her head was at her knees. Stuck in this awkward position, Puck furrowed around in the underneath of her skirt, and then straightened up holding a small knife. She offered it to Dustfinger with a straight face, but there was a twinkle of pride in her eyes. Dustfinger looked at the knife. It was a small, dull thing, not near the kind of knife Basta would flaunt, but it would do plenty well for cutting ropes or cheese. “Where were you hiding that?” asked Dustfinger, taking the knife. He knew a few women who sewed pockets into the lining on their skirts, to hide their valuables from greedy hands, but her skirt looked too thin, and the shape seemed too straight for that to be the case. Puck, by way of an answer, leaned forward again, and straightened up with a lump under her skirt, as though she had a marten sitting on her legs. Dustfinger watched as Puck maneuvered the lump to the side of her legs, and shifted her skirt around to reveal it, without exposing herself too much. Eventually she managed it, with her usual lack of grace, and moved her skirt to reveal a small fabric bag. “I didn’t tell you about it because I wasn’t sure if I could trust you.” she said quietly. “And I’m still not, but this bread tastes bad enough to squash my worries for the time being.” She paused for a second, and Dustfinger gave her a half smile at the joke. “It’s why I walked so slowly.” she continued. “I tied the straps around my waist and let the bag hang between my knees, but I keep catching my legs on it and almost tripping up, so I had to go slower.”

“Well.” said Dustfinger. “You really are brighter than I credit you. Even I wouldn’t have guessed you hid your valuables there.” 

Puck grinned, and fiddled with the back of her dress. The bag shifted slightly next to her, and she pulled in fully out from under her skirt, trailing it’s handles behind it like a forlorn maypole. “I’m glad I don’t have to hold it like that anymore.” she said, tying the handles into knots. “I had to cut the handles to do it, they were loops before, and I tried like that, but it wouldn’t work.”. Now she had told her secret and been praised for it, she could hardly stop from talking about it, pride welling in her voice. Dustfinger cut the cheese into thin slices as Puck spoke. She is very like Farid, he thought. Bragging like she’ll never speak again if she stops. But he was happy to let her talk, he was just glad she was willing to again. Whether he listened was something entirely different. 

  
  


“Dustfinger?” asked Puck. They had been at the strolling players’ camp for nearly a week, and Puck’s voice had lost some of it’s splintering fear as a result. The children begged for stories every time they saw her, and she had gained a reputation among the parents as a treat for their young ones. Dustfinger often passed by as she sat in the low branches of a tree, or on a mossy stone, and spun story after story for the spellbound children, sometimes acting out fragments of it to make them laugh. She had the same proud glint in her eye as Farid when he juggled his torches, attracting bigger and bigger crowds and tossing his torches higher and higher. Sometimes, once the children had settled into sleep, she would tell stories for the adults. She’d find the gruesome stories, tales she could never tell the children but still longed to say. She told of Bluebeard and his thousand wives, of Sweeney Todd the demon barber, of wicked kings and women made of metal. Dustfinger knew her words were stolen, but he found the same rapture in them all the same, just as he had enjoyed Resa’s stories. He had often told Resa not to worry about her lost voice, as people tended not to listen anyway. But they listened to Puck, with her bloodsoaked tales, and sometimes even the bravest would sleep with an ear out for Count Dracula’s cloak, or the thump of Frankenstein’s monster’s mismatched feet. 

Dustfinger had become accustomed to Puck’s presence next to him, and he often left her without telling her he had left, or where he was going. Puck, while she was not the most graceful or brave companion, seemed to always know in which direction to give chase, and he never got far without hearing the pat of her footsteps behind him. 

They were walking through the trees a short walk from the camp when Puck asked her question. 

“What is it wordthief? Another question about the Adderhead, or the Laughing prince? Or did you hear a tree whisper your name again, you know they aren’t as fatal as the whitewomen.”

Puck had become accustomed to that nickname now, wordthief, he used it almost more than her real name. But it wasn’t her own nickname that was on her mind. 

“Why did the Piper call you firefingers? I assume it wasn’t because of your hair, even I can think up better insults for that, and your hair is more sand than fire.”

Dustfinger could have smacked his forehead. A week! A whole week without showing the girl. He stopped walking and turned to look at her, very seriously. Puck’s face went pale, then pink as she realised her fear had shown through. “Sorry,” she stumbled, “I don’t really need to know, I was just wondering.”. 

Dustfinger shook his head. “I disagree. You should know, and I’ve done you a disservice not to show you. Although I’m surprised none of the players have told you already.” Dustfinger rolled up his sleeves, and whispered a few words into the air. Fire bloomed from his palm and flared up, higher and higher. Dustfinger brought the flame to his mouth and blew, and a great stream of flame shot forward, swirling and dancing like a ribbon in the wind. He let the flames dance up his arms, and as he whispered to it in words Puck couldn’t understand, she was absolutely in awe. She sat down on the grass and watched, starstruck, as Dustfinger swirled the flames higher and higher. She was enamoured with the show, and was struck by Dustfinger’s face, as well. She had never seen him look so young. All the age and hardship was stripped from his face, a serene smile playing on his lips, and even his scars looked fainter by the firelight. Dustfinger ended the show as suddenly as he had started it, one whisper and the flames were gone. Puck cheered and clapped till her hands were sore, and Dustfinger smiled humbly. “How do you do that?” she cried, looking up at Dustfinger like he was the most magical thing in the whole world. “Why doesn’t it burn you?” Dustfinger explained all about the fire elves, their honey that grants him the language of fire, and Puck’s eyes shone with excitement. 

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was writing f this but I read the sad bit in inkspell (both of them) :( and I accidentally equated my story to Orpheus’ bullshitery so now I’m sad and might not write loads more

She even begged Dustfinger to let her try, but when he handed her a box of matches her fingers shook so hard the flame went out before it even got close to her skin. Puck sighed, embarrassed, and sheepishly handed the matches back to him. “Why do you still carry matches?” she asked. In truth, Dustfinger didn’t know. He never got tired of calling the flames to his fingers, and the matches were so alien in his world he couldn’t use them if he wanted to, but he still kept them anyway. Perhaps it was the comfort of them, feeling the familiar edges fitting into his hand, the only comfort he had had in the other world. For ten years matches had been the only way he had felt like himself, striking a flame and playing with it like a child with a dog. The flame was silent and stubborn, nothing like the flames he brought so easily here, but he was as nimble and skilled with it anyway, twisting and growing it any way he liked. Perhaps he was more attached to them than he admitted. He didn’t say anything to Puck, simply shrugged and stowed the matches back in his deep pockets. They kept walking, collecting roots and herbs, taking note of animal tracks and footprints. When they returned, Puck was dragged away at once by the children, and when she sat down in the branches of a tree she found the only stories she could conjure were about dragons, masters of fire.   
The next morning, when Puck woke up, the atmosphere in the camp was different. People were whispering, looking at her distrustfully, and as she sat upright and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, her usual rush of children stayed behind their mothers’ skirts. Puck jumped down from the tree branch. She had been trying to practice sleeping in the trees like Dustfinger did, but she was too afraid to climb as high as he could. She slept on the lower branches, moving a little higher every night. As she walked through the camp, looking for Dustfinger, people were still whispering and hissing to each other as she passed by. Her newfound confidence shrunk with every sideways glance, and she shrank inwards, elbows tucked tight to her shapeless waist, knees knocking into each other as she walked. She finally caught sight of Dustfinger, growing flowers of fire for a small boy clinging to his leg, but before she could call out or run to him a hand descended on her shoulder.   
She turned and came face to face with the Black Prince’s bear, snuffling and grunting as if it too shared the distrust the camp held for her. The Black Prince looked down at her, the knives on his belt glinting like winking eyes, and guided her towards his own tent, worry and resignation in his face. Dustfinger looked up from his fire to see her being guided away, and passed a hand over his forehead. Curse my stupid soft heart for starting this, he thought, gently shooing the child away. I should have left her in the street, or in the woods, or anywhere that she couldn’t bother me. But Dustfinger made his way to the Black Prince’s tent all the same.   
The Black Prince and Puck entered his tent, where he shooed out a few players and sat down on a carved wooden chair. It was as good a throne as the strolling players could provide, but there couldn’t have sat a fairer prince upon it, and the thought was shared by each and every one of his motley citizens. The two were alone, save for the Prince’s black bear standing beside him, and Dustfinger listening close by. He could have strolled in and greeted his friend as a brother, as others so often said they were, but he knew his old friend well enough to let him say his piece before bursting in. Playing the hero had never been Dustfinger’s favourite role. The common coward, that’s more appropriate, he thought, crouched in the grass behind the tent. The Black Prince’s tent was in the middle of the camp length-wise, but it backed onto the wide forest, onto the thick trees and long grass. There would be no-one passing by to question Dustfinger, and he could listen in peace. The Black Prince looked at Puck seriously, and then spoke. “Roll up your left sleeve.” he said. It was the first time Puck had heard him speak, and his voice was pleasantly deep. It had a commanding timbre, and you could understand why the strolling players obeyed him so easily, even without his bear or his knives. Puck did as she was told, pushing the sleeve up to her shoulder and twisting her body slightly so the Prince could see her arm. Dustfinger cursed under his breath. I shouldn’t have let the silly girl tell that story, he thought. Her arms flapping about like great scaly wings, stories like that only seem to bring me trouble. But he knew that he couldn’t have stopped her if he had wanted to. All the stern looks and scoldings couldn’t keep her from telling them, just as he could never keep Farid out of his bag, or away from Gwin. Dustfinger shook his head, and listened twice as hard, as if to make up for his lack in concentration.   
The Black Prince looked at Puck’s arm, at the white dappled scar on her upper arm, and made a noise of both curiosity and resignation. “I assume you have heard the story,” he began, “Of the Bluejay?” Dustfinger groaned quietly outside, and cursed whatever damn fool invented that particular character. Fenoglio’s face swam in his mind, and Dustfinger cursed him silently, and whatever stupid idea he had taken it upon himself to write.   
Puck nodded. “Of course I have.” Alongside Puck’s own stories, the Bluejay was the most frequently told in the camp, amongst adults and children alike. The story of a brave robber, defending the motley folk against the wicked adder, fighting for everything good and right, and not for the shine of gold lining his pockets. A man who was brave and bold, as swift as a cat and wise as an owl, who wore a mask of bluejay feathers to protect his name. Every player knew the story, and often the topic of idle discussion would turn to it, of how some believe the bluejay is real, fighting so quietly no-one would know until he won for good. Others thought he was just a fairy story, something invented to keep the players quiet and hopeful, a hero to root for so no-one would take it on themselves to fight instead. Whatever they thought, though, everyone knew him. When Dustfinger had first told Puck the story, she secretly imagined it was him behind the mask. He used the feather’s to cover up his scars, and when he was done with the adderhead all that would be left would be a puddle of melted silver where the silver castle once stood, and a pile of warped silver chest plates. She knew it was all nonsense, of course, that Dustfinger could never do anything so daring and heroic, but it entertained her when the sky grew dark and fear welled up in her chest.   
Satisfied with Puck’s answer, the Black Prince glanced at Puck’s arm. “I assume you also know of the Bluejay’s mark, then.”  
Puck nodded, and a dawning fear grew in her eyes. Dustfinger could see it clearly in his mind’s eye, her face growing pale and her eyes spreading wider, her mouth slightly open. It was impressive how quickly he had become accustomed to her, her movements, her face, the way she ran. He almost cared for her.   
Puck stuttered a little. “You mean the scar?” she asked, running her hand over the old wound. “Plenty of people have scars, I don’t think it’s unusual.”  
“You cut your dress yesterday.” said the Black Prince. Puck nodded quietly.   
“I was telling the children a story, and I caught my sleeve on a branch.”  
The Black Prince nodded; he already knew this. He felt it was his duty to inform the girl in front of him of why she was there, he never took pleasure in deceiving his subjects. “After you cut your dress, the children became very taken with your scar. They have been saying you are the Bluejay, come to save us all from the princes we serve.”   
“But I’m not!” stuttered Puck. “Honestly I’m not, my scar isn’t from anything heroic or brave, it’s just a dog bite!”   
Dustfinger could have clapped a hand over her mouth. Never had he known such a gifted storyteller doom themselves with their own words as Puck did. But fear loosened her tongue better than anything else, and the words came spilling out like fish in a net.   
“My subjects fear that the Adderhead has heard the news.” said the Black Prince, ignoring Puck’s protest. “He has spies everywhere, and they fear he will attack the camp. He has often promised to string the Bluejay by his neck on brand new gallows, and the players are afraid.”   
Puck, face drawn and pale, looked frantically around the tent as if the answer would present itself in the fabric.   
“What about Dustfinger?” she asked, hesitant triumph in her voice. “Dustfinger knows I’m not the Bluejay, he can tell everyone, they’ll listen to him if they won’t to me.”   
“Very true. Dustfinger!” called the Black Prince, turning towards the back of the tent. “Stop sulking in the grass and join us!”   
Dustfinger jumped up and strolled through the entrance, ducking a little under the folds of fabric. “Your majesty” he said, his lips quirked into a smile. Puck let out a sigh of relief.   
“How did you know I was there?”   
“You may be able to hide from the Adders men, Dustfinger, but hiding from an old friend is much harder. Not that that stopped you for all these years. Where were you? I have heard all sorts of stories.”  
Dustfinger’s face didn’t betray anything. “I was far away.” he said. “I couldn’t get back, heaven knows I tried.” The Black Prince nodded. “You know she isn’t the Bluejay.”  
“I do.” the Black Prince said, “but it doesn’t change the fact that they do, and the Adder may as well.”   
Guilt settled deep into Puck’s face, and Dustfinger looked at her. “Take that look off your face.” he said, a little sharply. “Did you think the camp’s never been ambushed before? It most likely would have happened with or without you, the Adder’s been restless for a while, as I understand it.” At his last remark he glanced at the Black Prince, who nodded his agreement.   
“We’ll leave the camp for a while, let the Adder learn that the Bluejay had traveled east into the woods. Like you said, hiding from the Adder’s men is something I’ve gotten good at, even with a companion.” said Dustfinger.   
The Black Prince sighed. “I don’t like the idea of using you as bait. Suppose they catch you? Even travelling with the Bluejay would put a target on your back.”   
“As if I don’t have one already” smiled Dustfinger, gesturing to his scars.   
“I’m not the Bluejay.” Puck’s whispered protest was lost under the bear’s snorting.  
“We’ll travel east and camp there for a few weeks, lead the Adder on a merry chase if he decides to come down, and return in good spirits. I’d been meaning to go anyway, to show the girl the fire elves.”   
Puck’s breath hitched in her throat, but she covered it with a cough. Now wasn’t the time to be excited, however long she spent thinking about the fire elves, and the water nymphs, and Dustfinger’s magic. Dustfinger heard her, however, and winked with a twinkling eye.   
The Black Prince passed a hand over his face, then rose to his feet. “You’ve only just returned, and here I am losing my dear friend again. But if you are the same friend I lost those years ago, I know there’s no-one more capable. Be safe in the woods, I’ve heard the nightmares are getting bolder as the nights get longer.”   
“I’ll be back when it’s safe.” said Dustfinger with a hand in the prince’s shoulder. Then he left the tent, and Puck followed with a clumsy bow to the Prince. 

“Are we really going to see the fire elves?” Puck asked, trotting beside Dustfinger as he walked through the camp. For a moment she had forgotten about the Bluejay and the Adderhead, her mind was full only of the thought of Dustfinger’s fire, of the strange and marvellous creatures that she would never again get the chance to see.   
“I almost regret showing you my tricks, if I’d known you would fixate on it like this.”  
Puck ducked her head, but her excitement soon forced it back up again. “They really burn your skin if they land on it?”  
“My word, wordthief. The Adderhead on our tail, and a target on your back, and all you can think of is fire.”  
“Can you blame me?” asked Puck quietly, half joking.   
“No.” said Dustfinger, an almost smile twisting his lips. “I was just the same when I was young. Always running off to find the fire elves, coming back covered in burns with a smile like the moon. I don’t blame you at all”  
Puck smiled down at the ground at that image. She couldn’t imagine Dustfinger as a child, with a smooth unscared face and a smile that came easily.   
“But,” Dustfinger continued, “don’t take it into your head to try and copy me. It took a long time and a lot of burns, and I’m not the most accomplished physician.”  
Puck nodded fervently, and they parted ways to collect their things. As she gathered her small collection of items into her bag, she couldn’t stop thinking about Dustfinger’s past. She imagined him dancing in a circle of fire elves, their bright glowing wings like fireflies as they danced in the dark, just like the pictures in the fairy stories she had read as a child. 

Dustfinger and Puck made a grand exit. It was Dustfinger’s idea, to alert even the densest of spies to their movement, to make absolute certain the Adderhead would know that the Bluejay was no longer in the camp. The prince stood on a small log, and proclaimed to the camp that Dustfinger and Puck were leaving. “I have discussed this most seriously,” he called, “and it is for the camp’s own safety that Dustfinger and his charge leave for the east.” Some of the actors sniggered into their sleeves. They had been less easily bought by fanciful tales, and did not believe that Puck was the Bluejay anymore than they believed that Dustfinger came back from the dead. The Prince’s speech sent them into fits of laughter, and when he waved his hands about regally they had to stuff their fists in their mouths for fear of laughing aloud. “I do not believe that the Adderhead will make an attack, but there is no sense in taking chances. They will return, when it becomes safe for them to do so.”  
Puck looked anxiously at Dustfinger. “Suppose we do get caught?” she whispered. “I don’t think I could fight a goose, let alone a group of soldiers.”  
“It’ll be fine.” said Dustfinger. “Losing your faith in me?” Puck looked uneasily at Dustfinger’s scars, and said nothing. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him- on the contrary. He was someone she could trust almost without question, who had treated her kindly for the first time since she had arrived in the inkworld. It was the rest of that wretched place she didn’t trust. 

The Black Prince had finished his speech, and had turned to look down at Dustfinger. Despite the Prince’s conspiracy, Puck still felt the urge to duck behind Dustfinger’s back under his gaze. He was a truly formidable player, a fact not eased by his grunting black bear, draping it’s arms around his neck as it so often did. Dustfinger nodded at the prince and turned his back on the crowd who had gathered to listen to the speech. He set towards the camp’s boundary with nothing close to a goodbye, and with a miniscule wave Puck trotted after him. They walked through the camp in silence. Puck wanted to talk about the fire elves, about what their nectar tasted like and how to hum them to sleep, but she stayed mute, hurrying along beside Dustfinger with her eyes on the ground. Guilt was stirring like snakes in her chest, and a quick glance up at Dustfinger’s blank, unreadable face, did nothing to ease it. There was no half smile on the edge of his lips, no glint in the corner of his eye. She chewed on the inside of her mouth and walked on, quickening her step to keep up with Dustfinger’s long strides. She was reminded of the morning they came into the camp, only fourteen days ago, when she had only just caught up with him. She had told him a fairy had woken her up, but that had been a lie. She had been awake when Dustfinger climbed down the tree and set off without a thought as to her. She had watched through her lashes, and Dustfinger froze, and almost came back for her, then decided against it. She had been tempted to let him walk away, to try her luck alone, but when a whitewoman had poked her head through the trees she had lost her nerve and she took off, with feet like fire, to catch up with him. She almost landed face down in the dirt when her bag tripped her up, but she managed to reach him, and he hadn't seemed too disappointed.   
It was different now, as they walked further and further from Dustfinger’s home, and his family. Puck’s guilt stirred stronger in her chest, and she chewed her cheek so hard she tasted blood, and switched to the other side.   
Dustfinger glanced down at Puck, and was inwardly shocked to see the state she was in. Her face was blotchy and pink around her nose, her shoulders were high enough to rest her ears on, and good heavens, the state of her mouth. Blood wasn’t dripping out, but it ran into the cracks of her lip, and she looked like a corpse the way it made her skin look paler. She was staring at the ground like the sky was shouting at her, and she was wringing her hands as though her life depended on it. Dustfinger sighed inwardly. He should have expected this. Well what does the silly girl have to complain about, thought Dustfinger bitterly. It’s not as if she has to leave her friends, her place of safety. Ten years I’ve waited to come back to that camp, and I’m gone again in two weeks. What does it matter to her, everywhere here means the same in her mind. Maybe that’s your answer, a voice in the back of his mind said. Dustfinger pushed it down. What was it to him if she was lost and homesick? He had been gracious enough to take her with him to the camp at all, wasn’t that enough? He had already been scarred once for keeping a girl a soldier wanted. 

Dustfinger’s neck prickled, and he looked down at Puck. Her eyes jumped back to the floor guiltily, and Dustfinger made a noise in his throat.   
“What were you thinking?” he said, irritation laced in his voice “I tell you I’m not the best physician, and you go and carve up the inside of your mouth?”   
Puck’s eyes were wide when she looked up at him, and she swallowed before she spoke. “Sorry.” she said, and she spoke so quietly Dustfinger could barely hear her. “I didn’t realise I was doing it.” The guilt welled up in her throat like acid, and she spoke before she lost her voice again. “You didn’t need to come with me.”  
Dustfinger stopped walking, and scoffed derisively. Puck’s stomach left like it had shriveled to the size of a thimble, and her tongue felt like leather when she swallowed.   
“You would prefer to do this alone then?” he asked scornfully. “I should leave you here, and go back to the camp without you? Leave you to chew through your cheek in peace, and when the fairies and the brownies come I’ll let you handle them alone?”  
Puck’s eyes filled with tears. She didn’t want to cry, but her guilt was overwhelming, and had been joined by dread, weighing heavy in her lungs. She nodded.   
Dustfinger was tempted to walk away, let her realise how silly that plan really was, count on his fingers as Resa had taught him until she came running down the path, begging him not to leave her. But he didn’t, and he knew that if he did he would be kept awake at night, thinking about night mares and white women and vicious little brownies with teeth like needles. Dustfinger sighed heavily. “Curse your stupid stupid heart, Dustfinger”, he whispered, and he put a hand on Puck’s shoulder. “The Adder’s men, for all their silver and swords, are exceptionally stupid.” he said. “They couldn’t catch a fairy, let alone a pair of players.” Puck briefly registered that. ‘A pair of players.’ Was she to be his apprentice? Or did he mean the stories she told? The thought flashed across her mind like a fish’s fin glinting under the surface of a pond, and she shook her head silently.   
Dustfinger grimaced. So the threat of capture wasn’t putting her in this state; what else could it be? Dustfinger cast his mind around, thinking back to the other world, when Farid would stare at him with reproachful eyes and whispered curses. Farid had always gotten upset when they had left without finding Gwin. “He’ll be looking for us all night!” he would protest, begging Dustfinger to wait for a few minutes. “He’ll be lost!” Suddenly it struck Dustfinger why she was crying, and he was so bemused he could have laughed. The poor girl had only known him for fifteen days at the most, and she cared more about Dustfinger’s life than he did! He propelled Puck by the shoulders into motion again, and the two left their spot in the middle of the path with no sign they had ever stopped but a few wet droplets on the earth. “How do you think I got my scars, wordthief?” Dustfinger asked, taking care to walk slower so she could keep up. “And don’t go making up one of your tales as an answer, I've had more than my share of stories.”  
Puck took a shaky breath. “I don’t know.” she said. Puck was telling the truth, but Dustfinger’s words made her feel guiltier still. She had made up dozens of stories about Dustfinger’s scars, from battles with robbers in the dead of night, to the fairies scarring him so they would never forget his face.  
“I got them from an old enemy of mine, Basta, do you know Basta?”. She shook her head again.   
“Ah. Basta was as quick with his fancy as he was with his knife, and we both took a fancy to the same girl. Roxane.” Dustfinger’s face changed as he said her name, his eyes lighter in the dappled sun. “Roxane and I were to be married, in a strolling ceremony, and Basta was wickedly jealous. He carved into my face and left me for dead in the forest, to teach me a lesson.” Dustfinger’s voice had grown quieter, and he rubbed his face unconsciously. “It didn’t stop her loving me, though, and we married once my face had healed, much to Basta’s displeasure.”   
Puck’s face was distraught, her mouth sitting open and her eyes were streaming tears again. “That’s terrible.” She choked out, and she felt awful for all the stories she had invented. “My point, wordthief,” Dustfinger said gently. “Is that my life is full of tragedy, and a little more certainly won’t hurt now.”   
Dustfinger’s story didn’t make Puck feel better. In fact she felt worse, for taking him away from somewhere he was safe from all the tragedy that befell him. But he was speaking kindly to her again, and her cheeks began to dry as they walked.   
“Was your wife at the camp?” she asked.  
A cloud passed over Dustfinger’s face. “No.” He said. “She’s dead.” For a moment his deliberate tone of voice fell away, and he spoke without an ounce of pretence for the first time.  
Puck gasped. “I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, shocked at how easily Dustfinger spoke of it. “I feel terrible that you had to leave the camp because of me.” Her apology was quieter; she was afraid Dustfinger would snap at her again.  
“Nonsense.” Dustfinger said. “When I came back home, almost everything was different. Cosimo’s death, Roxane, even the piper’s nose. But the camp has stayed the same, after all those years. I hardly think a few weeks will change much, do you?”   
Puck shook her head.   
“Excellent. Now run ahead and look for a well, there should be one near here.”   
Puck sped awkwardly along the path, twisting out of sight amongst the trees, and Dustfinger pulled a face. Despite his reassurance, he was worried, like the coward he was, and his heartbeat faster every step he took. He hadn’t been telling the full truth, when he had told Puck the Adder’s men were stupid. A few of his foot soldiers, perhaps, nameless and faceless and used only to terrorize the city streets. But most of his men were cold and cruel, and had sharp wits behind their knives. If only he had been born with a brave heart, steadfast and sturdy in the face of fear, instead of skulking and hiding from the glint of a sword. If only the old man had written him strong and fearless, with a face like Cosimo and a voice like the Prince. Maybe then he would have more luck. But, thought Dustfinger as he quickened his pace, he at least has escaped his ink and paper death. With no marten to doom him, the story was his to take. Dustfinger walked faster now Puck was further down the path. The forest may be safer in the light, but he still didn’t intend to leave her alone for too long. He rounded another corner on the twisting path, and stopped dead. Puck was sitting at the base of a stone well, her legs outstretched, with a marten on her lap. 

She was laughing, tentatively scratching the marten’s ears, and when it bit her finger with it’s sharp little teeth she just smiled more, and gently pried it’s teeth away. She hadn’t seen Dustfinger, stood as he was in the shadows, his footsteps characteristically silent. The marten climbed onto Puck’s shoulder, and her face lit up in shocked delight. She sat frozen, a wide, childish smile on her face as the marten lay over her shoulder, and carefully, afraid to scare it away, she reached her hand up to stroke it’s head. Dustfinger watched with dread. Did it ever mention Gwin by name? He wondered, watching Puck grin as the marten tried to chew on her hair. He should have asked Silvertongue, he thought, he should have demanded to know. But would he have told him? Or would he have looked at him with pitying eyes and said nothing. Yes, that sounded like him. A man of other people’s words, but very few useful ones of his own. Dustfinger stepped out of the shadows and Puck’s head shot up. The marten didn’t seem to mind Dustfinger’s appearance, and jumped onto Puck’s legs and leaned it’s own legs up onto her chest. “Dustfinger look!” whispered Puck delightedly, and gestured minutely towards the marten. “What is it?”  
“It’s a marten.” said Dustfinger, bending down and picking the marten up around the middle. “You never saw them where you come from?”  
Puck shook her head, comically disappointed that Dustfinger had taken such offence to the animal, and stood up.   
“A good thing too.” Dustfinger said, letting the marten down towards the path. “Bundles of trouble, all of them. Did it bite you?”  
“Only a little. I didn’t really mind”  
Dustfinger looked at her with a half smile. “Fine. But don’t go trying to entice it back, they’re more trouble than they’re worth.” That ought to settle that, thought Dustfinger. We haven’t anything to call it back with anyway, even if she was the type to sneak around behind my back.   
Puck leaned carefully over the little stone wall and peered into the pit of the well. “Careful you don’t fall in.” said Dustfinger. “People say there’s a water nymph at the bottom.” Puck straightened up, and smacked her head on the lip of the well’s tiny roof. Shocked at the sudden pain, Puck instinctively fell forward, away from the source of the injury, and tipped over the rim of the well. Quick as a cat, Dustfinger’s hand shot out and caught the neck of her dress, as a bitch holds a runt. Puck breathed out uneasily, her heart thudding in her chest, and as she steadied herself upright, she thought she saw narrowed eyes flash below the water. But it was probably just a reflection of her own.   
Puck turned away from the well and took several deliberate steps back from it. “Sorry.” she said, rubbing her head. Dustfinger didn’t say anything, just began winding the bucket down into the well. The sun was high in the sky, and Puck sat with her back against a tree, in the shade. The sun wasn’t hot, only bright, and her head was already throbbing from the well. As she sat in the wet grass, still damp from the morning dew, the marten scurried back onto her lap and jumped onto her shoulder. “No.” she whispered, with an uneasy glance at Dustfinger. “No, go away.” She picked up the marten around the middle, as Dustfinger had done, and let it down as far away as she could reach. The marten jumped straight back up again. “No!” she hissed. “I don’t have anything for you, go away.” She put the marten back on the ground. It looked at her with distrustful eyes, and slunk away back into the undergrowth. Puck sighed. It was a beautiful place to sit, under the broad canopy of leaves. The well was built in a little gap between the trees, but it was still well covered by their vast branches. A few fairies fluttered out from between the boughs, their hands clutching bundles of grass and feathers. They fluttered around Dustfinger, twittering at him like tiny birds until he cut a lock of his hair and gave it to them with gentle fingers. They hurried off again, weaving between the trees, and Puck watched them until she lost their tiny bodies in the gloom. She laid her hair back against the tree trunk, ignoring the ache in her head, and closed her eyes. It even sounded magical, the birds, the leaves shifting in the wind. She opened her eyes again, and stood up gingerly. The ache in her head was subsiding, but standing still made her a little dizzy. Once she was up, she went and sat on the mossy wall of the well, watching Dustfinger tuck a tall flask back into his own bag. “What is it, wordthief?” he said, turning to look at her.   
Puck cast her mind around for an answer.. She didn’t really have anything to say, but she wanted to be polite, and eventually she settled on “The marten won’t follow us, will it?”  
Dustfinger flicked his eyes at the trees around them and shook his head. “No.” he said. “It was just hoping for an extra scrap of food.” Hesaid it more for himself than for Puck, but the little ball of dread in his chest stayed put.  
Puck nodded, and let her eyes wander between the tree trunks, looking for more strange creatures. Dustfinger sat on the well’s lip too, cautious not to leave her on her own by the water. She was much clumsier than Farid ever had been, and he would have to keep a closer eye on her. The pair sat on the well’s edge like a pair of statues, each thinking their own thoughts. Dustfinger was enjoying the stillness. He couldn’t remember the last time the world had been this quiet. No rumbling cars, no children dancing and screaming, no aeroplanes wheezing through the sky. Even the players back at the camp made too much noise for Dustfinger’s liking, not that that could ever keep him away. As he sat in silence, Puck saluted suddenly, and then put her hand back in her lap as if she had never moved at all. He looked at her quizzically, and Puck shrugged under his questioning glance. “There was a magpie.” she justified quietly. Dustfinger didn’t say anything. “Like in the rhyme. ‘One for sorrow.’ You’ve got to salute when you see a magpie, or it’s bad luck.”  
Dustfinger laughed at that. “Next you’ll be wearing a rabbit’s foot around your neck, or catching ladybirds in jars. Superstition is no replacement for common sense.”  
“Well there's no sense in tempting fate.” she responded.  
“Very true. But you should know as well as any that fate plays her own game.”  
Puck nodded. She knew very well to what Dustfinger was referring, and she was suddenly homesick.   
“How did you end up in this story?” asked Dustfinger. Puck smiled sardonically. “I don’t know.” she said. “I was just walking, I was trying to get home before it got dark, and then suddenly I was just in a forest. I remember I was so scared, I had no idea what had happened. I still don’t, really.”  
Dustfinger was unpleasantly surprised. He hadn’t realised how similar her story was to his own. “I had hoped Silvertongue would have learned his lesson by now.” he said, more to himself than to Puck. “Him and his silver tongued daughter.”  
“Who’s Silvertongue?” Puck asked, and Dustfinger began his explanation. They talked for hours, sitting on the lip of the well, Puck listening with rapt interest and Dustfinger explained everything that had happened in the other world. He spoke about Mo and Meggie, of Capricorn’s village, of Darius and Orpheus, of Farid and Gwin. He conveniently left out his own journey into the story, and his struggles in the bright, loud world that was so strange to him. They talked until the sun was low in the sky, and the shadows of the trees were long across the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I've really written myself into a hole :( I know I said I don't expect anyone to read this, but if anyone is, please read the end notes i need help haha  
> oh a different note, oh my god its 26 pages now lol  
> also sorry for the time skips at the end, I couldn't bear the monotony

As Dustfinger finished his account, something shifted in the trees, and Puck almost leaped out of her skin. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark, on top of everything else.”  
Puck frowned, but her face was pale as the moon in the darkness. “Not all the time. But in a forest, full of bandits and robbers and big cats and night mares, yes.”  
Dustfinger couldn’t argue with that, but he still suspected she was lying. Her wide eyes were a little too watchful, and as they stood up she seemed a little too unwilling to walk away from the well. As the darkness grew thicker, and the long shadows were replaced by tree trunks looming out of the gloom, Dustfinger found a suitable place to sleep. A large tree, even by the inkworld’s standards, with wide branches and thick leaves. Sleeping in trees wasn’t Dustfinger’s favourite way to spend a night, but he wasn’t so staunchly against it that he would refuse to. You slept where you could in the woods. Dustfinger climbed up into the branches, and Puck settled in one of the lower boughs, quiet determination in her eyes. Dustfinger could practically hear her fingernails gripping into the wood, and he counted at least three panicked curses as she almost rolled off before she finally gave up and curled into a ball amongst the tree’s roots. Dustfinger didn’t think it could have been very comfortable, but she was quiet, and Dustfinger could finally go to sleep.  
Puck went to sleep surprisingly fast, too. She had thought that she would be awake until the sun painted the clouds pink, and the fairies whired by again, looking for more scraps to pad their winter nests. Her head was spinning, full of the things Dustfinger had told her. A man who could read characters from books? She was trapped in a book she had never read, because someone in the book had been dragged out? How often had she dreamed of being pulled into her favourite book? Of meeting the children of Mr Benedict, or getting a visit from the counterpane fairy. Even going with Trey to camp Kernow, although she couldn’t imagine that one would be very enjoyable. She half thought that Dustfinger was lying to her, but how else could she explain the sudden change in the world around her. A world where she had no mother or father, no home or family. If only I had read that book, thought Puck. If only I had learned the right and wrong before I had even come here. But it was too late. And she didn’t suppose there was much chance of her getting home now. Lightning doesn't strike twice, and she didn’t think she would be dragged back and forth again by sheer luck. She curled her arms tighter around her knees and let sleep drag her down, into dreams of book shaped doors and dragons with forked silver tongues..

When Puck woke up, the marten was lying on a branch above her. It’s bushy tail was hanging down, twitching every so often, and with it’s bright, intelligent eyes it looked a little like the cheshire cat. “I suppose that makes me Alice.” she whispered as she sat upright, shaking leaves and dirt from her hair. In truth, she did feel a little like Alice, lost in a crazy, unreal world, following the mysterious white rabbit to escape the red queen. Even the trees, towering over her, made her feel like she had taken a bite of the wrong mushroom, and had shrunk down like a doll. She looked up at the branches above her, and finding Dustfinger to be gone, stood up and brushed down her dress. She glanced around at the trees, each way looking exactly the same, and decided to walk back towards the well. She had only taken a step when the marten leaped from it’s perch and dug it’s claws into her shoulder. She let out a little yelp of pain, but decided against shaking the animal off. Maybe Dustfinger would have better luck scaring it away. She saw Dustfinger walking past the well and back towards the path, and ran to catch up. He looked down at her, and his face fell. “Why is that animal still following you?” he asked, trying to hide the worry that was welling in his chest.  
“I don’t know.” said Puck. “It just keeps being there. I didn’t even feed it. Maybe it’s lonely?” as she said it, she reached up to scratch the marten behind the ears.  
“It’s not lonely, it’s a marten. It doesn’t need company, and neither do we.” he picked the marten up off Puck’s shoulder and plopped it down in the undergrowth.  
“Okay.” said Puck. “But didn’t you have a marten before?”  
Dustfinger grimaced. He hadn’t meant to tell her about Gwin, but it had come out in a rush along with everything else. “Yes.” he replied. “So you should trust me that a marten isn’t a good companion.”  
Puck didn’t seem to have an argument for that, and they kept walking. A couple of times, Puck thought she heard a rustle nearby, but she ignored it. After a while, though, and a noise that sounded a lot like a bird being eaten, Dustfinger stopped walking. “I don’t know what it is,” said Dustfinger. “But that marten is certainly taken with you.” As if on cue the marten stepped out of a clump of grass, innocently licking blood from it’s nose. Puck stooped down and attempted to pick up the marten. The marten, however, had attempted to jump onto Puck’s shoulder’s, and wriggled viciously until Puck put it down and let it try again. “We could call it Gwin two.” she said, the marten now happily lying on her shoulder.  
Dustfinger’s heart leaped up his throat. No easier way to tempt fate, he thought, and shook his head. “No,” he said, turning to walk again. “And there’ll be no ‘we’ either. I’ve looked after enough martens to know they’re self serving little beasts, and I want nothing to do with this one.” Dustfinger almost felt guilty saying that, remembering the comfort Gwin had been in both this world and the other, but he pushed it down. No use dying over a marten, no matter what that might entail. Puck didn’t argue this, and as they walked she tried to think of a better name. Dustfinger joined in a little, suggesting a few names, but Puck disagreed with them. There’s no harm in caring for it a little, he reasoned, and he almost heard the Cold Man laugh behind him.  
“Oh, I’ve got it.” Puck said, after a good fifteen minutes of name choosing.  
“Thank heaven.” said Dustfinger. “I’ve known women name their children with less effort than this.” Puck grinned. “So, what’s the name?”  
“Lysander.” she said, her chin held high.  
Dustfinger looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Why?” he eventually asked.  
“Cause it’s from the play! Lysander’s a character from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, so it matches my name.”  
“Stealing stories again wordthief. You’re almost as bad as Silvertongue.”  
Puck hummed in reply. “What’s Silvertongue like?” she asked, and the Piper’s silver nose swam in her mind. She knew that Silvertongue was flesh and blood, but she secretly liked the grim thought.  
“Well,” said Dustfinger, thinking over his words. How best to describe Silvertongue? A wily devil, who hides his lies behind soft words and sad eyes. No, that wouldn’t do at all. “He’s tall.” he said, his voice, as usual, guarded and private. “With dark hair, and dark eyes.”  
“And he has a daughter?” she asked  
“Yes, a few years younger than you. She’s got hair like you, too, though a little lighter, and a little longer perhaps.”  
“And they can both read people out of stories?”  
Dustfinger nodded.  
“Wow.”  
Dustfinger glared at her. “Don’t get any romantic ideas wordthief. It’s a dangerous game, and they don’t play it particularly well.”  
Puck sucked her teeth, but otherwise said nothing.  
“Do you know much about the book?”  
“That depends on what you’ll ask.”  
“Who wrote it?”  
Dustfinger frowned deeply. “Fenoglio” he said, and he could hear Farid’s mocking voice in his head. Tortoise face, the wrinkly old writer. Farid had a million names for him; he was about as fond of him as Dustfinger was.  
Puck looked at Dustfinger in disbelief. “Fenoglio?” She asked, and she screwed her face up in an imitation. “Wrinkly, italian Fenoglio?”  
“You’ve met him?”  
“Yes, in Ombra. I sharpened his quills for him while he and his glassman weren’t talking. They made up, though, and glassmen don’t need to eat. He was always going on about ‘his story, his world’. Even with knowing he wrote the stupid place, he still seems a little arogant.”  
At first, Dustfinger was shocked that Fenolgio was in the inkworld, but after a moment of thought it made sense. The shadow had to have been swapped with someone, so long ago in Capricorn’s village. And who more fitting than the old inkweaver.  
Dustfinger remembered the Bluejay’s songs, back in the camp. According to the players, they had come from an old poet, who walked a little fraily and was stuffed full of stories. For the first time, Dustfinger considered that Puck really was the bluejay, although the fact may have been hidden from her as well.  
“Dustfinger?” Puck’s voice was edged with confusion, and a little quieter than usual.  
Dustfinger didn’t respond, he was still thinking hard. The stories about the Bluejay were confused, as if the writer had changed their mind half a dozen times writing each one. Sometimes the Bluejay was tall, others they were short as a brownie, sometimes dark haired, sometimes blonde. The scar seemed to be a constant, but a few songs mentioned smooth, unblemished skin. The songs always mentioned how wise and brave the Bluejay was, which didn’t much apply to Puck, and the Bluejay was always a thief, stealing what is unreachable to others. Dustfinger had a terrible feeling that Puck had wandered into a role built for someone else, and that he himself had doomed her still further.  
“Dustfinger!”  
Dustfinger drew himself out of his thoughts.  
“What’s so terrible about me meeting Fenoglio?” Puck asked, chewing on her lip.  
“Nothing.” he said, his stony face doing nothing to ease her worries. “You just reminded me of something that happened a long time ago” This wasn’t technically a lie, but he still felt that his deception was reflected back in her eyes. “We’ll have to go off the path soon-” he added, his sudden topic change not lost on Puck. “Or we’ll push straight through to the silver men, and I don’t fancy spending the night with them.”  
Puck nodded, and as they turned Lysander leaped off Puck’s shoulder and onto the floor. Puck winced at the sudden pain as Lysander’s claws dug briefly into her skin, and then almost tripped over trying to avoid standing on him.  
“Oh, for bleeding-” Puck grumbled under her breath as Lysander ran into the undergrowth, and Dustfinger looked at her. He almost found her grumbling funny, but his fears were still simmering under his skin, and his face stayed as plain as if he was walking alone.

They walked through the undergrowth, past the tiny flowers blooming in spite of the cold winter coming, past trees with arrows embedded in them and rocks with brownies perched on top. They chittered angrily as they passed, annoyed at being disturbed, but they didn’t do anything else, much to Puck’s relief. She had offended a brownie on her first night in the wood, and it hadn’t stopped pulling her hair all night, until her skin was red and sore and little tears were pricking in her eyes. But in the light of day, with Dustfinger as a companion, each step she took seemed like something out of a fairytale. She had always enjoyed reading them when she was younger, and she half expected Tomlin and Janet to come riding through the trees, or to find Rip Van Winkle’s sleeping body in the grass. When the world looked so beautiful she could almost forget how dangerous it was, why they were walking through the forest at all. “Do you think the Adderhead’s actually following us?” she asked. The thought sent a chill down her spine. The idea of silver clad soldiers following their footsteps, the Piper’s silver nose gleaming as he peered out from behind trees and bushes. She glanced around uneasily.  
“It’s possible.” Was all Dustfinger would say, and Puck was left to her own nervous thoughts.

The day had been long. Without the small comfort of the path, their journey had been a great deal harder, thistles stabbing into her ankles and sharp stones permanently underfoot, hidden beneath the leaves. They had stopped, briefly, to pick berries from a bush and eat them sitting in the undergrowth. The moss had felt like a squashy quilt underneath Puck’s aching legs, and for a moment she felt like a fairytale again. But Lysander had spat a twitching rat into her lap, and Dustfinger had stowed the rest of the berries into a cloth package and urged her on. They had walked until the sun had disappeared and the woods were dark and gloomy, and her mind turned once again to the Adder’s men, lying in wait in the darkness. She had expected Dustfinger to stop walking, to find a suitable place to sleep, but he kept going, pushing further and further through the trees. Lysander was in his element, and he scurried through the grass with gleaming narrowed eyes, looking for wayward mice or fairies.  
“What are you looking for?” She asked Dustfinger, her eyes stinging from peering through the dark.  
“Something better seen by night.” Came his reply, and he pressed on, slipping through the trees like a ghost. Puck didn’t question him further, just followed him through the darkness. She kept her eyes fixed on the shifting shape of his back, and the faint smell of smoke reassured her that she was close to him. Eventually Dustfinger stopped walking, and Puck almost collided with him.  
“What is it?” she whispered. Lysander hopped onto her shoulder and chewed on her hair with a suspiciously wet muzzle.  
Dustfinger held up a palmful of fire, and illuminated the trunks around them.  
“Why didn’t you do that before?”  
“And attract every predator in the woods to our hides? Stop complaining, and look around.” Puck did as she was told, and saw little red dots flowing in the air. At first she thought it was embers from Dustfinger’s fire, but as the dots got brighter she saw they had tiny fragile wings.  
“Fire elves?”  
“Keep them off your arms. They don’t enjoy being woken up, even by me.”  
Puck nodded, and watched as more and more fire elves flew from the trees. They’re like fireflies, she thought, staring up at them in awe. She had never seen a firefly in her world, and she thought that if she ever did now, she would be woefully unimpressed. Dustfinger let them land on his fingers, and blew them off before they could burn his skin. Some pressed their tiny hands to Puck’s face, and left little scorch marks, but Lysander snapped at them and they flitted away angrily.  
“They’re beautiful,” she whispered.  
“They are.” Dustfinger’s voice held the same reverence as Puck’s, and they stood between the trees staring at the elves as they flew sleepily through the air. Dustfinger slowly let the fire in his hand go out, and the elves fluttered back to their nests, glad the disturbance was over. Rendered blind by the fresh darkness, Puck fumbled in the air and caught Dustfinger’s arm. He turned to face her, his scarred face as pale as a ghost in the dark. He pointed which way he wanted Puck to walk, and Puck followed on aching legs. She let go of Dustfinger’s arm, but kept her hands outstretched in front of her, close enough to feel him without touching. Lysander weaved in and out of Puck’s feet, and she almost tripped a few times, but she kept her balance and scooped him up from the ground. “Only for a moment.” she whispered to him as he bared his teeth and snapped at her.  
Dustfinger stopped walking barely two minutes from the fire elves, outside a cave. “It was a brownie cave.” he said, ducking his head as he walked in. “The fire elves drove them away.”  
Puck walked in behind him. The cave was full of dead leaves, like a carpet over the hard floor, and was shaped a little like a cornucopia. Puck let Lysander down onto the floor, and he snapped at her again. Edging around Dustfinger, she sat down at the closed edge of the little cave, tucking her knees close to her chest. Dusfinger stretched out in the open end of the cave, and whispered a few quiet words into the air. A small flame licked up in the middle of the floor, making the cave seem a little cosier. Puck tucked her head against the wall and closed her eyes, listening to the crackle as the flame bit the leaves. She was worried for a second that the flame would devour the cave, and her along with it, but Dustfinger, even half asleep, had the flame tamed like a dog, sitting obediently at his heels. The fire flickered gently, and Puck felt, despite the cold and the fear that was gnawing at her bones, peaceful and safe. She dropped slowly into sleep, and the flickering shadows on the cave’s walls pursued her into her dreams. 

When she woke up, Dustfinger was gone. The fire had gone out, leaving a little black scorch mark amongst the leaves, and the opening of the cave was streaming with cold sunlight. Puck struggled upright and glanced at Lysander. He was curled on top of her bag on the corner of the cave, his tail twitching over his face. Puck poked her head out of the cave, and looked around. She was hoping to see Dustfinger standing near the cave, but when she couldn’t find him she grimaced. She knew exactly where he was, he was back with the fire elves, but she didn’t know which direction that was. The previous night she had been practically blind, unable to think with the cold biting her face and fingers, her aching legs screaming. She was just grateful to lay down to rest, with all thought of where she’d come from banished by the thick blanket of sleep. Ducking back into the cave, she shook Lysander gently off her bag and pulled it over her shoulder. Then, staring at the identical trees, she took a guess and took off into the woods. 

She had to double back to the cave and start again several times before she finally found him. He was sat leaning against a tree, fire elves buzzing around him like tiny, red birds, tendrils of flame snaking through the grass at his feet. He looked peaceful and happy, gently nudging the elves away from him. They seemed less inclined to hurt him, and at first Puck thought the fire licking at the tree trunks was the reason, but as she crept closer she heard him humming gently, lulling the fire elves into domesticity. He was watching their paths through the cold air, his head leant against the rough bark of their nesting tree. Puck watched from her position in the grass, out of his eyeline. It felt wrong to disturb him, he seemed like a part of the earth, just an odd shape the leaves were making as they fell. He seemed as natural there as if he had never been anywhere else. Puck felt a pang of homesickness. She stood in the shadows, deliberating whether to turn back to the cave or interrupt him, when Dustfinger stopped humming. “If you wanted to spy on me, you should have been much quieter.” he said, then resumed humming before the fire elves could realise their own anger. Sheepishly, Puck ducked under the elves’ fluttering paths, and sat in the grass too. Even a stranger could have known, if he had happened upon the two of them, that Puck and Dustfinger were not from the same world. Where Dustfinger sat with his legs extended, resting comfortably against the tree with natural ease, Puck sat gingerly with her knees tucked to her chest. She sat as though she was in a seat that would be reclaimed at any moment, and she would be chased away to find another. If only she could.  
“Do you reckon that the Adder knows where we are?” she asked. It felt like a trick question, like the moment the words left her mouth a dozen swords would burst from the shrubbery and they’d be hauled off to the castle of night.  
“I imagine his messengers would have told him by now. The Adder pays well for prompt messages, and stablemasters are easily intimidated”  
“Oh.”  
Puck mulled this over. “How do you know he won’t follow us back to the camp? ”  
Dustfinger sighed, and stood up.  
“Where’re we going?” Puck asked, scrambling to her feet.  
“Back to the cave. I can’t keep humming the elves to sleep if you’re asking me questions.”  
They made their way back to the cave, and Puck made sure not to ask anything else until they were sat on the top of the cave, eating the berries they had picked the previous day. Puck enjoyed sitting on the curved roof of the cave, her legs swinging to-and-fro in the entrance. Lysander crawled up with her, but got restless and took a flying leap into the undergrowth. Puck ignored the sounds that followed, and focused on her questions instead. Dustfinger nodded briefly when she asked if she could question him again. “And hurry up about it, I can practically hear them buzzing about in your head.” Puck laughed at that, if a little sheepishly.  
“How do you know that the Adder won't just follow us back to the camp? Like a two bird one stone type thing?” she asked, and Dustfinger shook his head.  
“There’s only one bird the Adder’s interested in, and that’s the Bluejay. He won't risk his grand triumph for a bunch of strolling players. He could attack them whenever he likes.”  
“He hasn’t been very successful so far.” Puck said quietly, and even with her low tone Dustfinger could hear the mockery in her voice.  
“No, he hasn’t. Thankfully the Black Prince is a little wiser than our silver lord.”  
Puck grinned.  
A cloud passed over Dustfinger’s face, and his eyes grew troubled. He had thought a great deal about the Bluejay’s songs. The more he thought about them, the more he understood. The mainstream songs, sung in every marketplace and square, told of the Bluejay’s dark hair, his dog bite, his heroics. But a few, sung only, it seemed, in the strolling player’s camp, told of his long hair, his fair hair, his skin, not blemished or rough like a worker, but as smooth as a prince’s. It was obvious that Fenoglio had based his hero on Silvertongue and his daughter, but the two combined could easily apply to Puck. And as for ‘stealing that which no other can steal’, he felt his own nickname for her had achieved that. Wordthief, thief of ink and breath. When will the old man learn that nothing good can come of meddling. But in his mind he wasn’t meddling at all. Oh no, he was claiming the story that was rightfully his. The story he would have me die in, Dustfinger thought grimly. He emerged from his thoughts, his heart heavier for it, and Puck sat nervously looking at him.  
“I’m honestly not the bluejay.” she said, and Dustfinger rolled his eyes. Of course she wasn’t the bluejay, look at her. She was small and frightened as a bird, just looking for someone to hide behind.  
“I know.” was all he said in response, and they carried on eating. When Lysander came back to the cave, tiny flecks of blood on his muzzle, Dustfinger felt a sudden affection for him, and he felt the absence of Gwin. “Come on.” he said, letting himself drop the short distance to the ground. “We’ll keep walking this way, and avoid some of the tree fellers. They aren't very polite company.”  
Puck jumped down after him, and after collecting their few possessions they set off once again. 

The days were fairly monotonous, day after day of walking, night after night of rough ground or swaying trees. They picked berries, a few times they caught a rabbit, they slept and woke and walked and slept. Every so often Dustfinger would change their direction, and as the days went by Puck was grateful he knew the forest so well. Every tree they passed looked the same to her. It had been almost two weeks of continuous walking, of trees and moss and thorns, when Dustfinger finally agreed that the Adderhead perhaps wasn’t looking for them after all.  
“Well, looking for me.” Puck replied. “You aren’t in the stories, you or Lysander.”  
No, Lysander may yet play a part in my story, thought Dustfiger, looking sideways at the marten. “You aren’t in the stories either.” he reminded Puck. “Honestly, the way you’re talking, you’d think you really are the Bluejay.”  
“Of course I’m not the Bluejay.” Puck said. “Although it wouldn’t be all bad if I was.” Her voice became faraway and excited, and she propped up her chin on her hand. The grassy mound where they were sat was almost dark even in the daytime, and Lysander was lying across Puck’s shoulders with his eyes narrowed, waiting for a mouse to scurry past. “I could rob from the rich, like robin hood, yeah, and cut my own scars into Basta’s face, if I ever found him. I’d steal the piper’s nose while he slept, surely he doesn’t wear it when he sleeps, does he? That must be terribly uncomfortable, and I’d sell it and give the money to the players. Or I’d loose the soldier’s horses, so they’d have to go about on foot, and-”  
“And be strung by your neck in front of the castle of night.” said Dustfinger, his voice hard. She was growing more reckless by the day, he thought, more excitable and wild, more willing to beg Dustfinger to light sticks on fire, and let them burn down until they singed her fingers. He was touched, though he would never admit it, that she had planned revenge on his behalf, but he did not want another dead child following him around. He saw Briana’s hair in every red leaf that danced on the wind, and Farid’s voice, though he wasn’t dead, seemed permanently whispering in his ear. Puck’s spark of excitement having been firmly stamped out, she sat on the grass in silence.  
“Come on,” he said, standing up. “We’ll cut back towards the path, no need to wander and hide so much now.”  
Puck followed suit, and they were walking once again. 

It took them a good few days to reach the path again. Puck could have wept for joy, and the scratches on her legs from the thorns they had walked through was a testament as to why. Lysander was less enthusiastic, and kept dipping into the undergrowth to hunt. They walked in silence, as they often did, and the sun was high in the pale sky when Dustfinger stopped walking suddenly. Silent as a ghost, he ducked behind a tree, and Puck hurried after him. They stood quietly, and Puck was desperate to ask what was going on, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak. After a few agonising seconds that felt like forever, Puck heard footsteps on the path, and the clink of metal. She pressed herself into the bark. The men were talking amongst themselves, and Puck tried to listen to them, but the forest seemed suddenly noisier than ever before. Curse that stupid song bird, she thought. And the wind that rustles the grass, and the mice that squeak underground. She heard a few fragments, but she couldn't be sure of the words. She thought she heard ‘case’, ‘bluejay’, ‘false trail’, but the words were slippery in the air, and hovered out of reach like soap bubbles. Soon the footsteps receded down the path, and the clinking metal was gone. Puck stayed very still. She looked up at Dustfinger with fearful eyes, hoping for a half smile, or a wink, but his face was creased and worried, staring at a tree on the other side of the path. Fear fluttered in her stomach like a flag in the wind, and she wanted to run down the path and not stop until she reached the camp, but she stood still as a statue until Dustfinger tapped her shoulder and began walking again.  
“I didn’t like the sound of that.” he said  
‘Nor did I’ she thought, but she didn’t say it. She just shook her head and carried on trotting beside him.  
“We’ll cut through the moss women’s trees.” he said, just as eager to get back to the camp as Puck was. He must have felt Puck’s fear without looking, for he added “They’ll most likely be asleep, or gathering herbs. They’re almost as harmless as you are.”  
Puck appreciated the dig, the half hearted attempt to raise her spirits, but she didn’t feel better. With each step she took towards the camp her dread grew heavier, and she was desperately hoping that the Black prince’ apprehension had been unfounded. Dustfinger walked beside her through the grass, his face guarded and hidden. He motioned to Puck quietly as they passed the slumped bodies of the moss women in the roots of the trees, and they walked more quietly, tiptoeing over herbs and plants. Once they were out of the moss women’s forest, both sighed with relief, though for different reasons. Puck was still suppressing the urge to run to the camp, and when she first saw the familiar path, a wave of relief washed over her. Even Dustfinger’s eyes lightened a little, and they walked a little faster, all too ready for the safety of the camp. When they came to the entrance, though, they stopped dead in their tracks. The camp was a smouldering wreck, bodies strewn across the singed ground, deep swaths of earth uprooted by swinging swords. No-one was left. 

Dustfinger looked at the camp with horror.  
Puck cursed furiously, cursing every wicked man who’s name Dustfinger had told her, and rounding it off with “.. and all the others too.”  
Dustfinger said nothing. He just looked at the wreckage with fury and heartbreak. They walked slowly into the wreckage. Something shifted out of the corner of Dustfinger’s eye, and he turned to see a child. She was clutching her dress tightly in her tiny fists, and as Dustfinger approached she just trembled in fear. “What’s your name?” Puck asked, bending down to the girl’s eye level.  
“Tem.” she whispered. Dustfinger lifted the child up, and wiped the tears from her face.  
“Are there any others Tem?” he asked, his voice soft. Puck couldn’t tell if it was out of care for the child or his own heartbreak. Tem pointed with a tiny hand towards a gap in the trees, and Dustfinger and Puck followed the child’s direction.  
“I’m sorry.” Puck whispered to Dustfinger, as they walked through the forest. Dustfinger said nothing. They kept walking until Dustfinger suddenly stopped, looking around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I made Puck the bluejay, cause mo isnt there, but now they have no plot driver. They have to go to the inn to free the prince, but they have no reason to go to the mill, because meggie hasn't written to fenoglio because she isn't there. So they don't go to the mill, so dustinger doesn't get injured, so they don't go to the barn owl. Puck can't play with fire, so she cant do the fairy soot thing to go into the castle, but they have no reason to because meggie, mo, resa and farid aren't there, so they can't do that whole thing. They also cant do the immortality book thing because fenoglio wont write it, because he's not involved, and even if he was no one could read it because there aren't any fucking silvertongues! which means the adderhead stays mortal, the bluejay doesn't get firefoxes sword, cosimo never comes back, and nothing happens. does anyone have a single idea about what to do, I will take anything, I am so lost T_T thank you for listening:(


End file.
